Not Me, Eating My Fingers
sorry this is gross
hand by Sierra Dickey / photo by me
I’ve been chewing my cuticles for as long as I can remember. Even right now, before I start typing, I gnaw my right-middle finger with vigor. Onychophagia is the clinical name for nail biting. A year ago, I googled it. There are two pages in my notebook with bullet points like
why do I bite my nails and how do I stop
behavior not triggered by hangnail, but rather by feelings, moves to automatic, or ‘untriggered’ habit
fingertips can turn into a ‘pus bath’
kids whose parents bite their nails are more likely to bite nails too - even if parents stop before child is born
For every nail-nibbler, there is at least a dozen discouragers. My mother would hiss get your fingers out of your mouth, wide crazy eyes and clenched teeth. Sarabeth reaches toward me; across the table at dinner, as she drives us somewhere, beside me on the couch, stood near me in a crowded bar (remember?). Her clammy palm gently guides my hand away from my eager mouth. I won’t even begin to describe the public scrutiny I’ve endured from nail technicians. My orthodontist posed this question: if you’re at the deli, would you order a Human Skin Sandwich? (My answer, fifteen years later, is still no.) Andrew tells me I’m disgusting, very simple and direct. Also mean, I think.
My therapist joked that Andrew should thank me each time he sees me with my digit between my teeth. She’s wasn’t kidding, but I say it’s a joke because I laughed. Her comment alludes to the anxiety I carry not just in my relationship with Andrew, but my relationship with anyone. My onychophagia is a manifestation of this anxiety. I don’t bite my fingers because I find them delicious or even interesting. I bite my fingers because I don’t realize when I’m doing it.
“Duh,” you might think. This is a revelation for me, and it’s liberating. I won’t go so far as to say I’m proud to be a nail-biter, but I’m starting to shake some of the shame I’ve carried for most of my life. People have made me feel as though I don’t know that this is disgusting. I felt self-conscious leading up to our engagement because I feared my fingertips would be gnawed to bits, in comparison with Instagram accounts boasting fat diamonds. The pandemic worsened my guilt - are you trying to give yourself COVID?
Now I chow down on my left pointer finger. I pop an olive in my mouth instead, passing the pit between my molars. This essay isn’t building towards a resolution. All I mean to say, is if you’ve ever found yourself at work, on a date, at a funeral, in a workout class, sucking blood from a rogue cuticle, just know that you’re not alone.